For You And I Are Past Our Dancing Days
by Darkness' Embrace
Summary: "For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo."


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Infernal Devices series, or Romeo and Juliet. All rights belong to Cassandra Clare, and William Shakespeare.**

**Warning: This story contains references to abortion.**

**For You And I Are Past Our Dancing Days**

It was tragic, really, the way I wilted like a flower left in a shadowy corner. That was where you kept me, wasn't it? In the darkest corners of your mind, where cobwebs hung and demons prowled. I waited there, patient, my passion never waning. All I wanted was you. Could you not see that? But you did see it, you knew of the unbreakable hold you had over my very soul. That was why it hurt ten times more, when you finally broke my heart.

We were young lovers. That would be the correct term, I suppose. Fresh-faced and youthful, we were utterly carefree. It was only later in life that I would understand how much we need worries and sorrows, how grief grounds you, and how unfathomable sadness forms a new, deeper layer to your soul.

It started out simply. We would sit on the bed in my room, which coincidentally was just down the hall from yours, and we would speak. We would speak of everything and anything. I didn't care as long as I got to hear you talk. As long as those beautiful, cupids-bow lips were moving, and the sweet melody that was your voice filled my ears, everything would be all right.

Was it naive of me to think that we were in love? All those innocent caresses, didn't they mean something? I thought they did, and to this day I stare at your picture, tracing the planes of your two-dimensional face, and I wonder. Did you ever really love me? Of course you did. Of course.

As we grew older, it seemed that we grew together, shaping ourselves in to perfection; a perfect fit. I thought we were soul mates; that this heaven would never end. I felt charmed every second of every day, simply because you were in my life. They said it was unhealthy, the way we loved each other with such fervour at that tender age. Not to us. Not to me. You were everything to me, and in turn, I gave you everything I had.

The day I found out I was carrying your child I cried. Not tears of joy, but large, rolling droplets of pure misery. Why did I feel this way? I loved you, so why was your child a burden, an unwanted entity? I felt like dying, the guilt was so choking. I should have wanted to love and cherish that child, not feel the constant urge to rip it out of me. I did not want this. So I made it go away. You never knew, but I killed our child. It's mother did not love it, and was unfit to do so. What is a child to do without the love of a mother?

You could sense it, my treachery, I knew you could. Why else would you become so cold and aloof? Your heat had dimmed, it seemed, your touches less fierce, less passionate. I was desperate. I remember lying beside you and aching, positively screaming for your touch. But you were oblivious, or maybe you weren't, but either way, you turned me away. And that killed me.

My desperation grew. It became so all-encompassing that it was torture to take a single step out of bed, to face the world. I was sixteen years old, but I felt like an old woman; no longer in control of my fate. I had grown strong with your support and love, but now, when it was pulled out from under me, there was nothing to stop me from falling, twisting and spiralling until I hit rock bottom. Where had our perfection gone? You said that we were made for each other. Or maybe it was just a dream.

Then she came. Her. With her chestnut curls and blue eyes. So sweet, so utterly innocent. I saw the way you looked at her, and it tore me to pieces. I tried to ignore it; I tried so hard. I lay beside you every night, waiting until I felt the bed springs squeak as you stealthily crept away. I know where you went. I was just too scared of everything to confront you. It was easier to just pretend that everything was okay. Did you know that I would take walks in the rain, just so that I could cry with no one noticing? Not that you would have noticed anyway. You were too blinded. Blinded by her.

She is beautiful, there is no doubt. I was in the greenhouse, tending my red amaryllis when I saw your lips lock in a feverish kiss. It was filled with adoration, so potent. The clay pot slipped from my grasp and cracked on the stone floor, the soil spilling over the ground. My delicate flowers looked like a bloody bruise, spread on the dirty floor. I smiled as my heart shattered in to a million pieces.

It was winter, the snow falling in irresistible swirls of beauty. I couldn't help myself. I walked slowly, savouring the feel of the cold air; it's harsh bite as it entered my lungs. I caught a snowflake in my hand, watching as it slowly melted in to my red glove. The contrast was blinding. The red was brilliant, fiery, eye catching, compared to the bland brightness radiating from the small flake of cold snow. The snow is as pale as me.

We barely speak anymore. We sleep in the same bed, but everyone knows that your heart belongs to her. I am too weak to end this vicious cycle of pain, and you just don't care enough. Do you have no compassion, no sympathy? I knew you never did. Did I imagine the beating heart that was so beautiful in your chest? Did I imagine the way it loved me? Of course I did. For it was never your heart that cared for me. I don't know what it was. Are you happy that my heart is broken? You probably don't care. You never did. And that is the greatest pain of all.

My carriage is erect as I sit across from you in the lounge. She is beside you, with her soft smile and twinkling eyes, and I try to ignore your entwined hands, your adoring gaze. My dress is corseted tightly; that must be why I feel as if I cannot breathe. I am twenty years old, with silken blonde curls and icy blue eyes. I am beautiful, yet I feel ancient; like a withering old woman. I do not feel beautiful; I only felt like that when I was with you. Now she is the beautiful one.

_ "These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume."_

You kiss her. It is sweet, and beautiful. All I feel is pain, so potent. I clutch my stomach, trying to erase the echoing space there, the emptiness that I brought upon myself.

_"This day's black fate on more days doth depend: This but begins the woe others must end."_

It will never end, because I will never stop loving you.

_ "It is the east, and Julie__t is the sun."_

I am the sun, no longer.

**FIN**


End file.
